Kintsukuroi
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Noun; verb phrase—"golden repair," the art of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken, as a part of its history rather than something to be disguised. (Post IW)


**A/N: This is the first thing that popped in my head when I saw Bucky's new vibranium arm in Infinity Wars, and I like to think that Shuri did it on purpose instead of doing the black-silver combo like on the Black Panther suit for exactly this reason.**

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Everything _hurts_ after the battle, and superhuman or no, it takes a lot out of a guy to get smacked around by a Titan. It takes two showers, four sandwiches, and at least three days of sleep before Steve feels anything like human again. It definitely helps, too, that whenever he wakes up, Bucky's in the bed next to him, plastered up against him like a limpet. It reminds him so much of the old days, when they shared a cramped little tent in the ass-end of Nowhere, Germany, trying to conserve heat in the cold weather, but now it's a hell of a lot better because there's no HYDRA, no war, no aliens (except the good ones), no _nothing,_ just the warm peacefulness of their temporary bed in the palace that T'Challa's thrown open for them.

He rolls over slowly, wincing only a little as a few of the deep-tissue bruises protest, until he's facing Bucky, and he has to bite his lips together on a laugh. Bucky's hair is obscuring his face, and a large lock of it is fluttering as he breathes, in and out. Steve brushes the dark tangle back, his fingers only just skimming along warm skin, but even that light touch is enough to wake Bucky.

"Hey, punk," he rumbles.

"Hey, jerk," Steve replies with a smile, leaning in to kiss him.

He actually hasn't noticed it, since the metal's warmed to near skin-temperature with their body heat, and Steve traces his fingertips down Bucky's shoulder, dancing lightly over the ridged scar tissue where flesh meets metal before continuing down, tracing over the gold lines between the plating. "I didn't think you'd leave it on," he remarks. When Steve and T'Challa first brought Bucky to Wakanda, he'd seemed almost relieved to have the metal arm gone, and he's kept it off for all the months before Thanos arrived.

Bucky lifts the metal hand, closing and opening his fist. "I dunno," he remarks before lowering it back to rest on Steve's side, thumb rubbing back and forth over one rib. "I don't mind it that much. It's...it's _mine._ Just mine. I kinda like it."

"Yeah?" Steve interlaces his fingers with the metal ones, and Bucky doesn't twitch away like he would've with the old one. "That's good, Buck. I'm proud of you."

"What are we gonna do now, punk?" the former assassin asks. "You still a wanted man?"

"Probably." He inches closer and leans against Bucky's chest, tucking his head beneath the man's chin. It's how they used to sleep together all the time, back in Brooklyn, especially in winter. Steve definitely doesn't miss the defective lungs and his inability to stay healthy, but he does kind of miss the days when he was small enough to lie on top of Bucky and use him as a bed. "Not sure I want to go back right away anyways. Maybe I'll take a vacation. Come stay here with you."

God knows they've earned it. Sure, given that they've saved the world _again,_ maybe his name will be cleared, but he's not entirely certain of that fact. And if it is, he's still not sure he wants to go back at all. Not to say he doesn't miss New York or his friends, because he does, but there's a certain freedom in being out in the world just... _being._ Maybe they wouldn't stay in Wakanda the entire time—T'Challa's done enough for them, he doesn't need to house a pair of international criminals, too—but there's a whole world out there they haven't seen. Steve still has a list that he's working his way through, and he thinks it'd be nice to see Europe again, take in the sights he couldn't the last time he was there. For the first time since he came out of the ice, Steve isn't missing the past and is looking forward to what will come next.

Bucky chortles softly, his chest humming with sound, as he drags his fingers back through Steve's hair. "Wakandan sabbatical retreat. T'Challa's home for disillusioned superheroes and their sidekicks."

It conjures the image of the palace renovated to look like some B&B, heroes gathered together around a breakfast bar, swapping stories over waffles and burnt coffee, and Steve laughs aloud. As if he knows exactly what Steve's thinking, Bucky laughs too, a full, rich laugh that hasn't been heard since spring of '44 in France when Steve accidentally kicked a wasp's nest when he scaled a tree for recon and went screaming into a nearby creek, pursued by an angry swarm, holding the shield over his head.

Steve leans up to kiss him, tasting laughter on his mouth, and Bucky's arms come around his back, holding him close as one kiss becomes two, then three. Just when hands start to wander, there's a knock on the door, then Steve hears Shuri calling through the door, _"Ingcuka ubhuti,_ I'm coming in, so you better be dressed because if I'm scarred for life, I'm telling the General on you."

Bucky smirks and rolls his eyes, shifting back to put at least a little space between them. "We're decent, _usisi omncinci,"_ he replies, though he tugs the coverlet up a little higher just to be safe.

Steve sits up a little, leaning against the headboard as the princess opens the door, running in to jump on the foot of the bed. Trailing after like he's attached with string is Peter, and the kid actually has a hand over his eyes, good Christ have mercy. "We're decent, kid. That means you can look," he laughs.

The teen sheepishly drops his hand, though he's distinctly red around the ears and can't quite seem to look them in the face. Steve wonders if it's just being awe-struck or if he's embarrassed to see them like this—Steve doubts that the fact that Captain America regularly shared a tent with his sniper for more than just sleep has found its way into a lot of history books. "Hi, Mr. America. I mean, Rogers, uhm, Captain America Rogers. Sir."

"You can call me Steve, kid, I won't bite if you do," he replies, and Peter smiles like he's just been handed the Holy Grail. God, this kid. No wonder Tony's got a soft spot for him.

"Whenever you two are done being disgustingly in love in here, I want to look at your arm and make sure you haven't broken it already," Shuri interrupts.

"Doubt it. Couple 'a aliens ain't got nothing on your gear," Bucky replies with a smirk, nudging her with one foot so she nearly slides off the end of the bed. She catches herself by the footboard and swats at the approximate location of his leg before standing up and darting back out of the room, practically skipping, with Peter in tow. Once the door clicks shut, he shakes his head and leans back against Steve's chest, their earlier positions reversed. "Where did Stark even _find_ that kid?"

"Queens," Steve replies, grinning.

Bucky snorts. "Surprise, surprise."

He drags his fingers through the thick, dark tangle of Bucky's hair, fingertips trailing down his back before starting over. "Does it bother you?" Bucky asks in a mumble after they've been lying in peaceable silence.

"What?"

He lifts his left hand, flexing the metal fingers before lying it back against Steve's chest.

"No, it doesn't." He interlaces his fingers with the vibranium ones, feeling the slight scratches and dents left over from the battle. It had at first, but only because seeing it had reminded him of all HYDRA had done to him, all the pain that he'd been forced to endure, things that might not have come to pass at all if Steve had been able to save him on the train. But now Steve is almost grateful, in a strange and convoluted way, because if it hadn't happened, then he wouldn't have Bucky now, they would've never had what they have, and maybe things would've gone a much different way in this war because without Bucky around, Steve thinks that he'd have given up a long time ago.

Bucky sits up on one elbow, raising his head to study his face. "You know...I'm fixed up pretty good, punk, but there ain't no promise I won't start breaking again," he says with solemnity, which is true. His programming's been largely scrubbed out, but there's still the chance a few stray lines of code might get shaken out along the way, and nothing can ever get rid of the memories that he has burned into his head or the nightmares he sometimes still has.

But like the stubborn punk that he is, Steve only nods and smiles back at him. "You say that like I don't have plenty of mileage myself," he replies with a wry twist of the lips. Captain America might be the quintessence of perfection, but Steve Rogers is more than a little banged up, jagged edges and sharp points covered up by stars and stripes, held together with duct tape and safety pins.

"Just so we're settled," Bucky replies with that same wry smile, lowering his head to rest on Steve's chest once again, his fingers squeezing lightly around the other man's.

So they're a bit broken, but that's alright, because if those broken pieces catch and scrape and tear against other people, they _fit_ when they're together. Like a mosaic, a little broken, but all their pieces, laid together, make a complete shape where all the parts fit and are supported by each other; a made thing but crafted finely, and none the worse for not being whole to begin with.

They've a long way to go from here, cleaning up the mess that's left behind, but for now, they drowse in the warm sunlight that's spilling over their temporary bed as Steve traces one fingertip along the gold lines between the plating on Bucky's arm.

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 **A/N: Shuri calls Bucky "wolf brother" in Xhosa, and Bucky calls her "little sister" in return because she's totally adopted her 'broken white boy,' and you cannot tell me different. I'm relying on translator accuracy, too, so sorry if it's a little off.**


End file.
